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madlorificTitle: The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson
Author: MadLori
Length: 3200
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a man like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed
11 December
Update up front: Dad’s not home yet. Still no sign of Sherlock or any information about where he is. Today is Monday. He went missing last Wednesday afternoon. Soon it’ll be a week he’s been gone.
I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s damn hard to think about anything else.
With the time zone change, I didn’t land in London until early morning on Saturday. Mum was there to meet me. When I saw her, I just lost it completely. My dealing-with-it reserves had been used up. I went to her and she hugged me and I just sobbed like a baby. We stood there for a long time, other people must have been wondering what the hell my deal was, but I couldn’t be arsed to care. Mum didn’t say anything, she just held me tight and made comforting shhhh noises and stroked my hair.
I finally calmed down enough for us to walk to baggage claim and get my suitcase. Mum held on to my hand the whole time. She didn’t really talk to me until we got into the car.
“Are you all right?” she said, turning toward me before she started up the engine.
I shook my head. “Not really. I can’t stop worrying about Sherlock, and I just wish Dad had come home with me.”
She reached out and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Me too, sweetheart.”
We drove home. The flats were so quiet. I wandered over to 221 and sat on their couch, just looking around. This flat is them. Dad’s medical books and his spy novels and Sherlock’s weird scrapbooks and reference books, and the stacks of papers and empty teacups. It was them in a way that other people wouldn’t see. Somebody who didn’t know them would look around and think it just chaotic and impersonal. They’d wonder why there were no family photographs or personal mementos. But there are. They just don’t look like it to other people. They don’t know that the weird umbrella-stand in the corner in the shape of a troll was a gag gift from Dad to Sherlock, or that the moose skull on the wall wears headphones because Dad complained that Sherlock’s bored violin-scratchings weren’t fit to be heard by any creature alive or dead. Somebody who didn’t know them wouldn’t know that the lockbox on the bookshelf is where Dad keeps all the medals and such that Sherlock has been given and doesn’t care about, or that Sherlock keeps his old broken pocket magnifier because it got broken while he was running to save Dad from getting stabbed to death by a diamond smuggler with a bad attitude.
I got up and wandered over into their bedroom. The bed wasn’t made. Dad usually keeps it neat in there, but he’d gotten up in a hurry and left quickly when I’d called him last Wednesday. Sherlock’s book on the nighttable on his side of the bed. His dressing gown flung over the back of a chair. Dad’s reading glasses that he’d forgotten to bring along. A glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol. There’s a framed photo on Dad’s side, a picture that someone had snapped of them after their wedding. We’d all gone out for brunch after the registrar, nothing fancy, but some quick-fingered person had managed to capture this image (I suspect it was Aunt Harry). It’s not one of those staged wedding photos, with big posed smiles (or tortured fake ones). The camera had caught them grinning at each other unselfconsciously, Sherlock’s arm round Dad’s shoulders and Dad’s round Sherlock’s back. It’s rare photographic evidence of Sherlock’s real smile, not the one he uses to make people think he’s normal. They are both holding drinks and you can see the brand-new rings on their fingers. Dad’s cheeks are flushed and Sherlock’s got eyes for nothing else but him.
They look happy.
I put the photo back down. I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a man like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?
I escaped over to Zack’s that evening. I couldn’t take Mum fussing over me anymore. I swore up and down that I was okay and I ran across the street. He was waiting for me, and he caught me up in the biggest, tightest hug ever and it was just what I needed.
We went up to his room and he put on some Doctor Who because he knows that’s my comfort telly. I curled up into a little ball and he tucked me up close to his side and we watched the Doctor kick the stuffing out of some Silurians and I felt really safe, and loved. I can hardly believe it’s just a couple of weeks old, this thing with me and Zack, because it feels like we’ve done this a million times, watch telly cuddled up together, although we haven’t.
We took a break when he got peckish. Went downstairs, said hi to his mum and dad, both safely at home in their house where they belong, and rummaged up some sandwiches. Back upstairs.
I didn’t have much of an appetite. I nibbled at one sandwich while Zack talked about the concert he’d gone to in Camden while I was in New York. I listened to him talk and got out my scar cream from my pack. He’d seen me put on my scar cream a million times, I carry it just about everywhere. He watched me open up the tube, then put out his hand. “Can I?” he asked.
I was a little skittish about that. He’d seen my scar loads of times, of course, but now he was going to touch it, if I let him. I guessed I ought to. Let him, that is. I’d be wanting him to touch more bits than that when the time came. I handed him the cream and put my leg in his lap. He pushed my trouser leg up and just looked at the scar for a moment. He touched it, carefully at first, then more massage-y.
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asked.
“No. Sometimes it pulls if I move my leg a certain way. The scar tissue is stiffer than the rest of it. That doesn’t hurt, it’s just a bit weird. I’m used to it.”
He put some cream on his fingers and started rubbing it in. “Does this stuff help?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s getting lighter, sometimes I think it never changes.” I shook my head. “Dad says time will tell. But it’s never going to just go away, no matter how much cream I put on it.”
Zack was looking closely. He’d probably never had the chance to get this good of a look at it. “There’s rows of tiny dots here,” he said, running his fingers down my shin. “Is that stitches?”
“No, it’s from pins. It wasn’t in a cast, they put pins through the skin to hold it together so it could heal where it got ripped.”
He shook his head. “Blimey. It must have been really bad.”
“Yeah, it was. It ripped halfway around,” I said, drawing a line around my calf from one side to the other. “Dad says I could have lost my foot, easy. But it healed. Good as new.” I swallowed hard. “Except this damn scar.”
Zack kept rubbing the cream in. His hands were really warm and soft. It felt nice. “It gives you character,” he said.
I know he meant well by saying that. I know he believes that. I know that my scar is not a point of detraction for him, or really for anybody who knows me. But right then, that was so not what I wanted to hear. “Bloody hell, I am so sick of hearing that!” I burst out. Zack jumped a bit, his hand stilling on my leg. “Scars give character! Sure, character! A great gnarly mangled piece of flesh, that kind of character I don’t need.” I was choking up. “I hate it,” I said. “I fucking hate it, Zack. I hate that it’s always there, I hate that I can never not see it, that I can even feel it there, I hate that people always look at it and comment on it and want to hear the whole story of how I got it, because I hate thinking about it. It was the scariest thing that ever happened to me and I don’t remember most of it and I think I’m glad about that. It’s like when you have this thing on your body it becomes public property, like it’s perfectly fine for people to point and ask and generally act like I’m obligated to talk about it because I’ve allowed it to be seen!”
By the time I finished this tirade I was barely understandable through the crying. Zack looked stricken. “Gosh – Genie, I didn’t mean…”
“Just shut up about it!” I snapped. “I can’t, I just can’t.”
Bless Zack. He knew I wasn’t angry at him. He put my leg down and crawled up by my head and put his arms around me and I just cried and cried and cried and clung on to him, getting his jumper all soggy and he didn’t even care. He held me so tight and made shushy noises and rubbed my back and I think I like this having-a-boyfriend lark. I calmed down eventually but he didn’t let go. “Soooooo,” he began, cautiously. “Guessing that all that wasn’t really about your leg, huh?”
I sniffed. “No.”
“Sherlock?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’d be out of my skull if I were you, Genie.”
“I am out of my skull. I’m just hiding it well.”
“Umm…yeah. Real well,” he said, casting a wry glance down at the big wet spot on his jumper.
I giggled. “Sorry I got all wobbly all over you.”
He shrugged. “What are boyfriends for if not to be cried on?”
He smiled down at me and I got this big warm jolt into my stomach, because he was just so sweet and so gorgeous and he was mine, all mine. “I hear they’re good for snogging,” I murmured.
“Yeah?” he said, a slow grin coming over his face. “Wanna find out?”
I didn’t answer, I just pulled his head down and snogged the life out of him. It was nice to forget everything and just get lost in it, how it felt to be close to him, getting off on his futon and getting my hands on his really fantastic arse. And if he got some personal knowledge of my chest then that’s neither here nor there.
That’s about as far as it went. For now, heh heh.
Yesterday Mum and I went up to Highgate to Nana and Grandpa’s house. “You heard from Dad?” I asked her on the drive out, trying to sound casual.
“He checked in this morning before you were up. He said to give you a kiss and he’d call you soon.”
“I guess he didn’t have any news.”
“No. But I’m sure it’s…”
“Mum, can we just not? I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right.”
We were quiet the rest of the way there. One of the many awesome things about Mum. She knows when to not talk.
It was nice at Nana and Grandpa’s house. They were very huggy and talkative and were very, very obviously not asking us about Sherlock. Aunt Adele was there. She cornered me in the backyard where I’d gone to get away for a bit.
“You look exhausted, little bit.”
“I’m still a bit jet-lagged, I guess.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“As much as I can.”
She put her arm around me. “We’re all worried, Genie.”
“You hate him, though.”
She sighed. “I don’t. Not really. It’s a bit of a sock puppet theater we put on for everyone, in a way. I wanted to hate him, because he’s such an unbelievable prat, and then I wanted to hate him because John left my sister for him. It’s weird, though. I don’t hate him at all for the second bit, just the first.”
I looked up at her and took the opportunity to get a long-wondered-about answer. “Did you ever fancy him?”
“Sherlock?” she said, her eyebrows going way high. “No.” I waited. “Okay, yes. A bit. Purely on aesthetics. It was one hundred percent mercenary on my part. I work in fashion, you know. Couldn’t help but think about the looks on my colleague’s faces if I walked in to an event with that on my arm.”
“That?”
“Told you it was mercenary. But no, I never seriously considered it. Anyhow, I knew what side of the bread he was buttered on.”
“Adele…” I debated for a moment, then plunged on ahead. “Do you know about Mum’s – other man?”
Her face went serious. “She told you about that?”
“Yeah. Not long ago. I was asking her how she’d been so easy about Dad and Sherlock.”
“It wasn’t easy. Don’t ever think it was easy. Just because she knew it could happen doesn’t mean she wanted it to. And it was a bleeding rough time all around, what with your accident and all.”
“But who’s this man?” I wasn’t letting her get me off topic.
She sighed. “Genie, it’s not my place to tell you about him.”
“You’ve met him, though?”
“No. But I’ve got a lot of feelings about him myself. I hate that my sister’s stuck in this purgatory with him. And that’s part of why I can’t hate your dad or Sherlock. Because she never thought she’d ever be happy or have a family or a life. Your dad gave her those things and she still has them. So Nathan didn’t ruin her life, like I was afraid he would. John helped her reclaim it, and even Sherlock too, in his way. It’s only because she knew that your dad loved Sherlock that she felt like she could even consider having a committed relationship with him. And I know how weird that sounds, but it’s the truth.”
I barely heard the last bits. “Nathan? His name’s Nathan?”
Adele’s face fell. “Oh, blast. She didn’t tell you his name?”
“No. But it’s not like that tells me much, is it?”
“I suppose not.” Nana called us in for dinner right then. “Well, let’s go get some grub, shall we? I’m starved.”
So now it’s Monday night. School was normal, in as much as I could even pay any attention to it whatsoever. Miss Dunedin called me in to her office after lunch.
“Genie, your mother’s notified me about your – troubles.”
“My troubles?”
“She said that your stepfather has gone missing.”
“He’s not my stepfather!” I snapped. That somehow seemed like a really important distinction. “He adopted me, he’s my father.”
Miss Dunedin just nodded along. “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I’ve let your teachers know, so if you find yourself somewhat – distracted, we understand.”
“Thanks,” I said. I meant it. Say what you like about swotty schools like Francis Holland, they did a good job making you believe they cared. And they might just actually care, point of fact. “I’m trying to focus on schoolwork, but it’s hard.”
“Of course it is. If you want to take some time…”
“No. I want to be here. What would I do at home? Sit round and wallow?”
“I admire your attitude, Genie.” She smiled. “You may go.”
So I sleepwalked (sleptwalked? Is that a word?) through the day and came home and went right upstairs. Mum wasn’t home from work yet. I tried not to look at the door to 221, standing open like it usually was, but nobody home.
My phone rang later that night. “Dad!”
“Hi, Genie.” He sounded exhausted. “How are you, luv?”
“Oh, hang how I am, how are you? Any news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Nothing. A profound lack of anything.”
“Dad, a lack of anything would be the presence of something. Double negative.”
Dad laughed, the sort that sounded like it might turn into crying at any moment. “Christ, Genie. You sound like him.”
“I don’t even know if I’m right. It just sounded good.”
“God, I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Dad,” I said, choking up for about the sixth time that day. “Can’t you come home? Please?”
“I can’t. Not yet, luv. I can’t give up on him. He wouldn’t give up on me, not ever.” He was choking up, too.
“I know. It’s okay. I want you to find him, really bad, but I also want you to come home, really bad, and I know I can’t have both and it’s driving me round the bend.”
“I don’t even know if I’m helping,” Dad said. “There’s the New York police and then there’s this team that I assume is Mycroft’s people, and they’re sort of working together but I’m not a member of either team. I’ve got my own network of sources. Twenty years working with him, I’ve acquired a few skills. But everything’s over there, at home, but he disappeared from here – I don’t even know where I’d be better off. I just keep thinking that if Mycroft’s team is still here, that this is where I need to be.”
“I think I’d go with that, too.”
“How are you, sweetheart? How was your weekend?”
“All right. We went up to Nana and Grandpa’s yesterday. I hung out with Zack some.”
“Everything going all right there?”
“Yeah. It’s rather brilliant, actually,” I said, remembering that explosion of belly-warmth I’d felt with him. “Does it always feel like this?”
“Does what?”
“I dunno. Being in love.”
“You think that’s where you are with this, huh?” he said, sounding like he was picking his words carefully.
“How do I know? Maybe it gets better. Or worse.”
“It gets better and worse, luv,” Dad said. I could hear his smile.
We both got quiet. “Find him, Dad,” I finally said.
“I will, Genie. I promise.”
We said our goodnights and hung up. I should have told him not to make me a promise he might not be able to keep.
Next Entry
Author: MadLori
Length: 3200
Genre: Family, humor, shameless fluff
Pairing: Sherlock/John (established), John/OFC (referenced, in the past)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Teenagerfic
Summary:I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a man like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?
Genie's blog stars here: 1 September
The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed
11 December
Update up front: Dad’s not home yet. Still no sign of Sherlock or any information about where he is. Today is Monday. He went missing last Wednesday afternoon. Soon it’ll be a week he’s been gone.
I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s damn hard to think about anything else.
With the time zone change, I didn’t land in London until early morning on Saturday. Mum was there to meet me. When I saw her, I just lost it completely. My dealing-with-it reserves had been used up. I went to her and she hugged me and I just sobbed like a baby. We stood there for a long time, other people must have been wondering what the hell my deal was, but I couldn’t be arsed to care. Mum didn’t say anything, she just held me tight and made comforting shhhh noises and stroked my hair.
I finally calmed down enough for us to walk to baggage claim and get my suitcase. Mum held on to my hand the whole time. She didn’t really talk to me until we got into the car.
“Are you all right?” she said, turning toward me before she started up the engine.
I shook my head. “Not really. I can’t stop worrying about Sherlock, and I just wish Dad had come home with me.”
She reached out and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Me too, sweetheart.”
We drove home. The flats were so quiet. I wandered over to 221 and sat on their couch, just looking around. This flat is them. Dad’s medical books and his spy novels and Sherlock’s weird scrapbooks and reference books, and the stacks of papers and empty teacups. It was them in a way that other people wouldn’t see. Somebody who didn’t know them would look around and think it just chaotic and impersonal. They’d wonder why there were no family photographs or personal mementos. But there are. They just don’t look like it to other people. They don’t know that the weird umbrella-stand in the corner in the shape of a troll was a gag gift from Dad to Sherlock, or that the moose skull on the wall wears headphones because Dad complained that Sherlock’s bored violin-scratchings weren’t fit to be heard by any creature alive or dead. Somebody who didn’t know them wouldn’t know that the lockbox on the bookshelf is where Dad keeps all the medals and such that Sherlock has been given and doesn’t care about, or that Sherlock keeps his old broken pocket magnifier because it got broken while he was running to save Dad from getting stabbed to death by a diamond smuggler with a bad attitude.
I got up and wandered over into their bedroom. The bed wasn’t made. Dad usually keeps it neat in there, but he’d gotten up in a hurry and left quickly when I’d called him last Wednesday. Sherlock’s book on the nighttable on his side of the bed. His dressing gown flung over the back of a chair. Dad’s reading glasses that he’d forgotten to bring along. A glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol. There’s a framed photo on Dad’s side, a picture that someone had snapped of them after their wedding. We’d all gone out for brunch after the registrar, nothing fancy, but some quick-fingered person had managed to capture this image (I suspect it was Aunt Harry). It’s not one of those staged wedding photos, with big posed smiles (or tortured fake ones). The camera had caught them grinning at each other unselfconsciously, Sherlock’s arm round Dad’s shoulders and Dad’s round Sherlock’s back. It’s rare photographic evidence of Sherlock’s real smile, not the one he uses to make people think he’s normal. They are both holding drinks and you can see the brand-new rings on their fingers. Dad’s cheeks are flushed and Sherlock’s got eyes for nothing else but him.
They look happy.
I put the photo back down. I tried to picture my Dad without Sherlock and I couldn’t do it. I’d never known my Dad without Sherlock. I’d never been without him, either. I knew I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t help but worry that if he never came back, or if he died, that all of it would be just broken into a million pieces. Mum would be okay, she’d deal with it. Dad and me might not be so okay. I think even I would be okay eventually, but Dad? I don’t think so. I think that if you’re in love with a man like Sherlock, you’re done for. There’s just no moving on from that. Who could possibly compare?
I escaped over to Zack’s that evening. I couldn’t take Mum fussing over me anymore. I swore up and down that I was okay and I ran across the street. He was waiting for me, and he caught me up in the biggest, tightest hug ever and it was just what I needed.
We went up to his room and he put on some Doctor Who because he knows that’s my comfort telly. I curled up into a little ball and he tucked me up close to his side and we watched the Doctor kick the stuffing out of some Silurians and I felt really safe, and loved. I can hardly believe it’s just a couple of weeks old, this thing with me and Zack, because it feels like we’ve done this a million times, watch telly cuddled up together, although we haven’t.
We took a break when he got peckish. Went downstairs, said hi to his mum and dad, both safely at home in their house where they belong, and rummaged up some sandwiches. Back upstairs.
I didn’t have much of an appetite. I nibbled at one sandwich while Zack talked about the concert he’d gone to in Camden while I was in New York. I listened to him talk and got out my scar cream from my pack. He’d seen me put on my scar cream a million times, I carry it just about everywhere. He watched me open up the tube, then put out his hand. “Can I?” he asked.
I was a little skittish about that. He’d seen my scar loads of times, of course, but now he was going to touch it, if I let him. I guessed I ought to. Let him, that is. I’d be wanting him to touch more bits than that when the time came. I handed him the cream and put my leg in his lap. He pushed my trouser leg up and just looked at the scar for a moment. He touched it, carefully at first, then more massage-y.
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asked.
“No. Sometimes it pulls if I move my leg a certain way. The scar tissue is stiffer than the rest of it. That doesn’t hurt, it’s just a bit weird. I’m used to it.”
He put some cream on his fingers and started rubbing it in. “Does this stuff help?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s getting lighter, sometimes I think it never changes.” I shook my head. “Dad says time will tell. But it’s never going to just go away, no matter how much cream I put on it.”
Zack was looking closely. He’d probably never had the chance to get this good of a look at it. “There’s rows of tiny dots here,” he said, running his fingers down my shin. “Is that stitches?”
“No, it’s from pins. It wasn’t in a cast, they put pins through the skin to hold it together so it could heal where it got ripped.”
He shook his head. “Blimey. It must have been really bad.”
“Yeah, it was. It ripped halfway around,” I said, drawing a line around my calf from one side to the other. “Dad says I could have lost my foot, easy. But it healed. Good as new.” I swallowed hard. “Except this damn scar.”
Zack kept rubbing the cream in. His hands were really warm and soft. It felt nice. “It gives you character,” he said.
I know he meant well by saying that. I know he believes that. I know that my scar is not a point of detraction for him, or really for anybody who knows me. But right then, that was so not what I wanted to hear. “Bloody hell, I am so sick of hearing that!” I burst out. Zack jumped a bit, his hand stilling on my leg. “Scars give character! Sure, character! A great gnarly mangled piece of flesh, that kind of character I don’t need.” I was choking up. “I hate it,” I said. “I fucking hate it, Zack. I hate that it’s always there, I hate that I can never not see it, that I can even feel it there, I hate that people always look at it and comment on it and want to hear the whole story of how I got it, because I hate thinking about it. It was the scariest thing that ever happened to me and I don’t remember most of it and I think I’m glad about that. It’s like when you have this thing on your body it becomes public property, like it’s perfectly fine for people to point and ask and generally act like I’m obligated to talk about it because I’ve allowed it to be seen!”
By the time I finished this tirade I was barely understandable through the crying. Zack looked stricken. “Gosh – Genie, I didn’t mean…”
“Just shut up about it!” I snapped. “I can’t, I just can’t.”
Bless Zack. He knew I wasn’t angry at him. He put my leg down and crawled up by my head and put his arms around me and I just cried and cried and cried and clung on to him, getting his jumper all soggy and he didn’t even care. He held me so tight and made shushy noises and rubbed my back and I think I like this having-a-boyfriend lark. I calmed down eventually but he didn’t let go. “Soooooo,” he began, cautiously. “Guessing that all that wasn’t really about your leg, huh?”
I sniffed. “No.”
“Sherlock?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’d be out of my skull if I were you, Genie.”
“I am out of my skull. I’m just hiding it well.”
“Umm…yeah. Real well,” he said, casting a wry glance down at the big wet spot on his jumper.
I giggled. “Sorry I got all wobbly all over you.”
He shrugged. “What are boyfriends for if not to be cried on?”
He smiled down at me and I got this big warm jolt into my stomach, because he was just so sweet and so gorgeous and he was mine, all mine. “I hear they’re good for snogging,” I murmured.
“Yeah?” he said, a slow grin coming over his face. “Wanna find out?”
I didn’t answer, I just pulled his head down and snogged the life out of him. It was nice to forget everything and just get lost in it, how it felt to be close to him, getting off on his futon and getting my hands on his really fantastic arse. And if he got some personal knowledge of my chest then that’s neither here nor there.
That’s about as far as it went. For now, heh heh.
Yesterday Mum and I went up to Highgate to Nana and Grandpa’s house. “You heard from Dad?” I asked her on the drive out, trying to sound casual.
“He checked in this morning before you were up. He said to give you a kiss and he’d call you soon.”
“I guess he didn’t have any news.”
“No. But I’m sure it’s…”
“Mum, can we just not? I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right.”
We were quiet the rest of the way there. One of the many awesome things about Mum. She knows when to not talk.
It was nice at Nana and Grandpa’s house. They were very huggy and talkative and were very, very obviously not asking us about Sherlock. Aunt Adele was there. She cornered me in the backyard where I’d gone to get away for a bit.
“You look exhausted, little bit.”
“I’m still a bit jet-lagged, I guess.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“As much as I can.”
She put her arm around me. “We’re all worried, Genie.”
“You hate him, though.”
She sighed. “I don’t. Not really. It’s a bit of a sock puppet theater we put on for everyone, in a way. I wanted to hate him, because he’s such an unbelievable prat, and then I wanted to hate him because John left my sister for him. It’s weird, though. I don’t hate him at all for the second bit, just the first.”
I looked up at her and took the opportunity to get a long-wondered-about answer. “Did you ever fancy him?”
“Sherlock?” she said, her eyebrows going way high. “No.” I waited. “Okay, yes. A bit. Purely on aesthetics. It was one hundred percent mercenary on my part. I work in fashion, you know. Couldn’t help but think about the looks on my colleague’s faces if I walked in to an event with that on my arm.”
“That?”
“Told you it was mercenary. But no, I never seriously considered it. Anyhow, I knew what side of the bread he was buttered on.”
“Adele…” I debated for a moment, then plunged on ahead. “Do you know about Mum’s – other man?”
Her face went serious. “She told you about that?”
“Yeah. Not long ago. I was asking her how she’d been so easy about Dad and Sherlock.”
“It wasn’t easy. Don’t ever think it was easy. Just because she knew it could happen doesn’t mean she wanted it to. And it was a bleeding rough time all around, what with your accident and all.”
“But who’s this man?” I wasn’t letting her get me off topic.
She sighed. “Genie, it’s not my place to tell you about him.”
“You’ve met him, though?”
“No. But I’ve got a lot of feelings about him myself. I hate that my sister’s stuck in this purgatory with him. And that’s part of why I can’t hate your dad or Sherlock. Because she never thought she’d ever be happy or have a family or a life. Your dad gave her those things and she still has them. So Nathan didn’t ruin her life, like I was afraid he would. John helped her reclaim it, and even Sherlock too, in his way. It’s only because she knew that your dad loved Sherlock that she felt like she could even consider having a committed relationship with him. And I know how weird that sounds, but it’s the truth.”
I barely heard the last bits. “Nathan? His name’s Nathan?”
Adele’s face fell. “Oh, blast. She didn’t tell you his name?”
“No. But it’s not like that tells me much, is it?”
“I suppose not.” Nana called us in for dinner right then. “Well, let’s go get some grub, shall we? I’m starved.”
So now it’s Monday night. School was normal, in as much as I could even pay any attention to it whatsoever. Miss Dunedin called me in to her office after lunch.
“Genie, your mother’s notified me about your – troubles.”
“My troubles?”
“She said that your stepfather has gone missing.”
“He’s not my stepfather!” I snapped. That somehow seemed like a really important distinction. “He adopted me, he’s my father.”
Miss Dunedin just nodded along. “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I’ve let your teachers know, so if you find yourself somewhat – distracted, we understand.”
“Thanks,” I said. I meant it. Say what you like about swotty schools like Francis Holland, they did a good job making you believe they cared. And they might just actually care, point of fact. “I’m trying to focus on schoolwork, but it’s hard.”
“Of course it is. If you want to take some time…”
“No. I want to be here. What would I do at home? Sit round and wallow?”
“I admire your attitude, Genie.” She smiled. “You may go.”
So I sleepwalked (sleptwalked? Is that a word?) through the day and came home and went right upstairs. Mum wasn’t home from work yet. I tried not to look at the door to 221, standing open like it usually was, but nobody home.
My phone rang later that night. “Dad!”
“Hi, Genie.” He sounded exhausted. “How are you, luv?”
“Oh, hang how I am, how are you? Any news?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Nothing. A profound lack of anything.”
“Dad, a lack of anything would be the presence of something. Double negative.”
Dad laughed, the sort that sounded like it might turn into crying at any moment. “Christ, Genie. You sound like him.”
“I don’t even know if I’m right. It just sounded good.”
“God, I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Dad,” I said, choking up for about the sixth time that day. “Can’t you come home? Please?”
“I can’t. Not yet, luv. I can’t give up on him. He wouldn’t give up on me, not ever.” He was choking up, too.
“I know. It’s okay. I want you to find him, really bad, but I also want you to come home, really bad, and I know I can’t have both and it’s driving me round the bend.”
“I don’t even know if I’m helping,” Dad said. “There’s the New York police and then there’s this team that I assume is Mycroft’s people, and they’re sort of working together but I’m not a member of either team. I’ve got my own network of sources. Twenty years working with him, I’ve acquired a few skills. But everything’s over there, at home, but he disappeared from here – I don’t even know where I’d be better off. I just keep thinking that if Mycroft’s team is still here, that this is where I need to be.”
“I think I’d go with that, too.”
“How are you, sweetheart? How was your weekend?”
“All right. We went up to Nana and Grandpa’s yesterday. I hung out with Zack some.”
“Everything going all right there?”
“Yeah. It’s rather brilliant, actually,” I said, remembering that explosion of belly-warmth I’d felt with him. “Does it always feel like this?”
“Does what?”
“I dunno. Being in love.”
“You think that’s where you are with this, huh?” he said, sounding like he was picking his words carefully.
“How do I know? Maybe it gets better. Or worse.”
“It gets better and worse, luv,” Dad said. I could hear his smile.
We both got quiet. “Find him, Dad,” I finally said.
“I will, Genie. I promise.”
We said our goodnights and hung up. I should have told him not to make me a promise he might not be able to keep.
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no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 06:05 am (UTC)I knew there was a good reason for following you on tumblr! I really enjoyed your post about the Slash Wife. You've done a great job of avoiding any cliches I think. Also a lilo is a sort of inflatable air bed if I understand correctly. (I'm American, but I swear I saw a discussion about it on the SherlockBBC com.)
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Date: 2011-07-05 06:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 08:13 am (UTC)Seriously though, I love how complete the family you created is - I feel like I know just as much about Genie and Grace as about the characters from canon. And there's all that backstory I can't wait to unravel...
Love this, can't wait for more x
no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 10:09 am (UTC)Bwahaha! Oh, lord.
You're really intriguing me with this Nathan thing. And you have me on tenterhooks over what's going on with Sherlock! Always looking forward to the next instalment.
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Date: 2011-07-05 03:56 pm (UTC)Now Nathan, who's Nathan? BACKSTORY!
I love reading this and look forward to every new chapter.
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Date: 2011-07-05 03:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 04:46 pm (UTC)Gah! You keep taunting us with little tidbits about Genie's scar and this Nathan character... When will we understand??! Waiting (impatiently) for the next chapter.
Please interpret my frustration as love, as it is intended.
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Date: 2011-07-05 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 05:31 pm (UTC)Once he finally resurfaces, I hope Sherlock is prepared to receive TONS of physical familial affection with as much grace as he can impatiently muster. Genie may attach herself to him like a spider monkey and never let go, that is, if she can find a spot that has already been commandeered by John.
As always, anxious for more whenever you have a chance, and can't WAIT for that backstory! So glad to hear it is coming along.
Kisses, Spencerphile
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Date: 2011-07-05 07:05 pm (UTC)And now I need to figure out who Nathan is! Looking forward to the back story as well
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Date: 2011-07-05 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 08:17 pm (UTC)Keep it up!
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Date: 2011-07-05 09:45 pm (UTC)I just love this story so much. :D
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Date: 2011-07-05 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 02:16 am (UTC)Depending on how long he's gone, Sherlock might even be prepared to dole out some familial affection.
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Date: 2011-07-06 02:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 03:34 am (UTC)♥
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Date: 2011-07-06 03:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 01:15 pm (UTC)Nevertheless, I loved how you told us more about how Genie and the family as a whole face the consequences that came with Sherlock's job.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 12:06 am (UTC)I am totally addicted to this story. Eugenia is wonderful and kickass and totally plausible.
And if I don't find out what has happened to Sherlock soon... well, see above re: "Refresh" button.
Thank you for writing this!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 02:02 am (UTC)